Oriental Hotel (11 page)

Untrue. A stab of guilt pierced her despair. The Comtesse had cared and tried to help, but her suggestion had been to ask Gerald Brittain for his backing and Elise could not do that. No, not even if he were her last hope …

The wheel turned full circle, the twist of the screw bringing a fresh wash of tears. He
was
her last hope! Every other avenue had been tried and found to be a dead end. But what could he do even if she did swallow her pride and beg for his assistance? The Brittains were powerful in Hong Kong but this was Cairo. He would let her make a fool of herself, no doubt, and then inform her with that infuriatingly superior smile that she was out of her mind to even consider it. Probably he would tell her that women had no business travelling about alone – their place was in the home, looking after their husbands and children. She had met him twice for just a few minutes, yet already she knew and disliked him as thoroughly as Gordon had always disliked the Brittain family. ‘Arrogant vain bastards', he had called them.

Vain!

The word caught in her mind. The Brittains were vain and this one, she was sure, was no exception. Supposing she was to appeal to his vanity – make it a challenge to the power the family wielded. Was it possible then that he might try to do something for her by way of proving that for a Brittain anything was possible?

Her breath came fast and shallow. The tears – always a useless luxury – had stopped now.

Could
he do something if he chose? The Comtesse had thought so …

No! I can't! I can't ask him! she thought, but this time a small voice within prompted: You could try.

No, I can't!

If there had ever been a chance, she had ruined it. Twice since he had come to Shepheard's she had encountered him, twice she had been less than friendly – less than polite, even. She must have appeared an utter shrew.

‘How much do you want to get back to Alex?' the small voice within her asked.

With all my heart. Nothing else matters. Nothing.

Not even pride?

Oh I don't know … she swallowed, torn by an agony of indecision. Then her chin came up. No. Not even pride could be allowed to matter. If there was a chance, however tiny, that he could help her she must take advantage of it.

But what on earth am I going to say to him? she wondered.

And the small voice, triumphant, answered: ‘You'll think of something.'

Her steps slowed; she turned. She had come a long way from Shepheard's and the danger of being alone in the Cairo streets at night came to her in a rush. She must have been crazy, walking out like that! And really she hadn't noticed where she was going. A group of soldiers on the opposite side of the boulevard whooped at her and as a gharry approached she raised her hand to hail it.

This would be a safer – and quicker – way of returning.
‘Shepheard's Hotel, please,' she said.

Dinner was over – only a few guests still lingered in the dining room – and the Comtesse and Gerald Brittain were nowhere to be seen. But Elise was glad. She did not want to face him at the scene of their last encounter. It would be bad enough to meet on neutral ground – wherever that might be.

A boy was hovering. She spoke to him with authority.

‘I'm looking for a Mr Gerald Brittain. Do you know where I could find him?'

The boy's face wrinkled in concentration.

‘Mr Brittain?'

‘Yes.'

‘Please to wait. I will see.'

He scurried away to consult with another boy, then quickly returned. ‘Mr Brittain who wears the blue uniform?' he said. ‘We think he go into the bar. Would Madame like me to page him?'

‘No, thank you,' Elise said hastily.

Normally she would never have dreamed of going into the bar alone, but having him called to the lounge was certainly not the way to go about retrieving the situation.

In the doorway of the bar, however, she paused as her courage almost failed her.

The smoky room was crowded. Many of the officers from GHQ who came to visit the Turkish baths – a strange box-on-wheels contraption, where they could steam the dust of the desert out of their pores, and have their aching muscles pounded into submission by the resident Swiss masseuse – finished the evening with a convivial drink here. Their laughter and conversation, raucous compared with the exaggerated gentility in the dining room, overpowered her and as the door closed behind her she was very aware of the eyes homing in on her – some admiring, some lecherous, some simply curious. This was a man's world and a woman alone rarely strayed into it.

Self-conscious, yet determined not to let it show, Elise crossed to the bar. Groups of men broke off their conversation and stood aside to allow her through, but for a moment – surrounded by the sea of unfamiliar faces – she could not see anyone who looked remotely like Gerald Brittain and she wondered if the boys had been wrong in thinking he was here.

Then quite suddenly she saw him sitting at the bar. Her fingers tightened around her bag and she made her way towards him.

‘Mr Brittain.'

He looked up and she caught the merest suggestion of surprise in his expression. Then his mouth quirked. ‘Well, if it isn't Mrs Sanderson!'

With an effort she ignored the taunt. ‘I wondered if I could talk to you.'

‘Really?' His hazel eyes gleamed with amazement. ‘ That's quite a turnabout; the last time we met, you couldn't wait to leave.'

She swallowed down the sharp retort she longed to make. He was her only chance, she reminded herself, and she could not afford the luxury of telling him exactly what she thought of him.

‘If I was rude, I am sorry,' she said. ‘I'm afraid I have only one excuse, that I'm very worried about my son. He's in Hong Kong and I'm desperate to get back to him.'

‘Oh yes?' He reached into the pocket of his jacket, sliding out a monogrammed silver cigarette case. ‘What has that to do with me?'

‘Well …' she hesitated. On both sides men were calling out to Toni, the Italian barman, for his famous ‘Suffering Bastard' cocktails; joking, tormenting him with claims that he must be a spy. Glasses clinked, roars of laughter temporarily drowned out conversation. This was not the best atmosphere for asking favours and going into long explanations.

‘It would be a lot easier to talk somewhere quieter,' she ventured, flushing slightly.

‘That, if I may say so, sounds like a very tempting suggestion.'

Her flush deepened. She wasn't used to this type of banter. Since she was seventeen she had been Mrs Gordon Sanderson and other men had treated her with respect. Nobody has ever really flirted with me, she thought with surprise. Not even Gordon …

‘Mr Brittain …'

‘It's all right. We'll go to the lobby.' He drained his glass and with a hand on her shoulder guided her back through the crowded bar. His touch was light but it was enough to keep the colour burning in her cheeks and she wished they could have remained in the dim light of the bar rather than the sparkling incandescence of the chandeliers that dominated the lobby.

Once there he made no attempt to lead the way to a seat, but stood facing her as if he expected the conversation to be brief.

‘What can I do for you, then?'

Her mind raced. There was no point in beating about the bush and she might as well come straight to the point.

‘I wondered if you could help me obtain a passage back to Hong Kong.'

He drew deeply on his cigarette and behind the haze of smoke his eyes were narrowed.

‘Why should you think I could be of assistance?'

‘Because your family is very influential in the East.' She hoped she had managed to say this without any bitterness. ‘The Brittains of Cormorant carry a great deal of weight.'

His mouth quirked. ‘Not with the Ministry of War Transport.'

‘Oh, but …'

‘How long have you been here?' he asked.

‘Seven months. During five months of which I have been trying to persuade someone to authorise my passage home.'

‘Why did you come? You must have known seven months ago that trouble was brewing.'

‘I didn't realise the seriousness of the situation. My mother was very ill – dying! I felt I really had to come and see her.'

‘And now you want to get back to your son?'

‘Yes.'

‘You miss him?'

‘Of course.'

‘So why did you leave in the first place?'

‘I thought it would only be for a little while. I never dreamed that anything like this would ever happen and …'

‘All right. Spare me the details,' he said, interrupting her. ‘I've heard them once already this evening, when the Comtesse pleaded your case very eloquently.'

A quick rush of gratitude to the Frenchwoman was followed almost at once by sharp annoyance. So he was going to react as she had expected!

‘If you already knew, why did you let me go on explaining?' she flared.

‘I suppose I was interested to hear how you would excuse yourself.'

‘I see. Well, I'm sorry if all this is a game to you. It's very far from being a game to me.'

The tears were very close again, threatening to spill over. How could she suddenly be so emotional? Until the last few weeks she hadn't cried in years, and she certainly had no intention of letting him see her tears now.

‘I heard this evening that my son is ill,' she said, with a jerk of her head. ‘That is the only reason why I decided it was worth at least asking if there was anything you could do to help me. I should have known it would be just an entertainment to you and I'm sorry to have taken up your time.'

She turned away, holding back the tears with determination. ‘Arrogant bastards!' Gordon had said. As usual, he had been right.

‘Just a minute.' His voice arrested her. ‘Don't go rushing off in a paddy.'

She swung round, eyes blazing. ‘Don't tell
me
what to do.'

He laughed outright. ‘ Not if you want me to help you, anyway.'

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?'

‘You said you wanted me to help you.' The amusement was in his tone as well as his face. ‘I can't do that if you go dashing off.'

‘But …' She still couldn't believe what he was saying.

‘I'm on my way to Hong Kong. I have a passage on a troop-ship. Now, I can't make any promises, but if you wish I will do what I can.'

‘
You're
going to Hong Kong?' She felt bemused suddenly, able to take in only one point at a time. ‘ Then …'

‘I said I can't make any promises.'

‘But …'

‘Leave it with me and I'll see what I can do.'

She looked at him and all at once was afraid she was going to faint. Conversations, music, all was reduced to a thick buzz and his face seemed to blur before her eyes.

‘Thank you.' Her voice was tight from exercising so much self-control.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Don't thank me yet! There may be nothing I can do. Now, if you will excuse me …'

‘Yes, of course,' she said.

They moved apart at the same moment, neither wanting to prolong the conversation, but by the lift she stopped and looked back over her shoulder.

He was almost at the entrance to the bar, a tall well-muscled figure. She noticed to her surprise that he limped, but it was merely a passing observation. Her mind was too occupied with his promise to try to help her.

Perhaps I was wrong about him, she thought. Perhaps he's not like the rest of the Brittains after all.

And was surprised to find how much she suddenly wanted to believe that.

‘Well, ma chère, and have you any news yet?'

It was mid-afternoon at Shepheard's and less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since Elise had returned to her suite to find Gerald Brittain occupying it, but it could have been a lifetime.

‘No news.' The tension of the day showed in her face. Hours of waiting and wondering, hours when hope and despair had chased one another in tight circles. He had said he would try to help, but what could he do? What could anyone do?

The Comtesse had not appeared for breakfast. She took it as was her habit on a tray in her room – black coffee and croissants on a silver tray set with a single fresh orchid – and it had been midday before Elise had seen her to apologise for the scene in the dining room the previous night.

‘I'm sorry. It was unforgivable of me, but you still put in a good word for me.'

The Comtesse shrugged. ‘I did my best – ‘I knew you behaved so only because you were upset. But my best, I'm afraid, was not good enough.'

Elise looked at her in surprise.

‘This time I was unable to make my powers of persuasion work for me.' The Comtesse's eyes shuddered in genuine regret, but she did not frown – frowns produced wrinkles. ‘ Monsieur Brittain was – how do you English say it – a nut I could not crack!'

‘But he is going to help me – or at least he is going to try,' Elise said. ‘I went to see him last night and he promised to do his best.'

‘Really?' Scarlet fingernails plucked thoughtfully at scarlet lips.

‘Really! I was as surprised as you. In fact, I can hardly believe it now.'

‘Well, well.' The Comtesse paused for a moment. ‘Call me a fanciful old woman if you like, but I have a feeling that our Monsieur Brittain is not quite what he seems,' she said thoughtfully.

‘Not a hard-hearted tycoon, you mean?'

‘No. More than that. Something I cannot quite put my finger on, ma chère. He tells me he is on his way home to Hong Kong. Did he tell you that also?'

‘Yes, he did.' Elise was too tightly strung with anxiety to take much notice of what the Comtesse was saying.

‘And did he also tell you that he was being invalided out of the Royal Air Force?'